Bedroom Blog: Mama Drama

LB and I spent most of Saturday trying to avoid Mom. We hung out by the pool, walked down to the beach, borrowed Dad's car to check out the neighborhood… you name an activity, we did it. By the time Saturday evening rolled around, we were sunburned, tired, and sweating our butts off. We could have gone to a bar, sure, but we knew that if we stayed out all night after being MIA all day, Dad would be super angry with us.

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When we got back to the house, Mom was making spaghetti and meatballs.

"Where's Dad?" LB asked, lifting up the towel on the table to reveal a fresh loaf of homemade Italian bread, which was so good when we were growing up that it almost made up for how she acted the rest of the time.

"Poker," she said. "Your father plays with some men from the church on Saturday nights."

"Dad went to go play poker while we're here for a visit?" I asked, miffed.

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I saw Mom's jaw tighten, and I could almost hear her say in that smug voice she gets, "Well, since you and your brother decided to sightsee instead of spending time with him, he didn't think there was any reason to skip his game." Instead, she took a deep breath, then took another deep breath.

"It's only for an hour or so," she said in her best fake-cheery voice.

We sat down to eat in silence. I wasn't even hungry, but I shoved food into my face like it was my last meal because I didn't know what else to do with myself. Suddenly, Mom cleared her throat.

"I want to talk to the two of you," she began.

LB and I shot each other quick glances.

"I know you're both angry with me for that business back in February, and I want to apologize," she said.

LB choked on a piece of bread. I whacked him on the back, and it flew out of his mouth. Normally, I would have laughed, but it was clear my mother intended to keep talking.

"It wasn't fair for me to put that burden on the two of you," she continued, voice shaking. "It was a terrible thing to do to your children, and… and…"

I looked up from my plate, and saw my always-composed mother trying very hard not to cry. She absently fanned at her left eye with one hand while a tear slipped out of her right.

"I haven't been a very good mother to you two," she said, voice breaking. "And I'm sorry."

She stifled a sob as she got up from the table and hurried out of the room. LB and I sat there, still looking at our plates, in shock. Finally, he grabbed my hand and squeezed it.

"What just happened?" I asked, trying to lighten the mood.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you use humor as a defense mechanism?"

"You don't even know," I said, thinking about how Dr. D had forbidden me from doing it in therapy.

Mom tried to make herself scarce for the rest of our visit, and LB and I were too stunned to do anything but let her. Now that I'm back home, I'm still trying to process it. I guess it's either going to be one of those things that we forget ever happened, or we use it as a jumping-off point to healing our relationship. If that's even possible.